


Kiss With A Fist

by lolneptune



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolneptune/pseuds/lolneptune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is literally just 1k or so of fighting and then even more fighting. The title is from this lovely song: https://youtu.be/1SmxVCM39j4</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss With A Fist

**Author's Note:**

> For Caitlyn, my one and only <3 My queen <33 My errythang <333

He was late. Harry bloody Potter. He left crumbs on his chin when he ate, and left ink to the right of his mouth when he went to scratch an itch, and just this morning Draco watched as the messy twat slid his finger between puckered lips and left a spot of marmalade at the corner. His fingers had itched. Messy. Messy. Messy.

He paced.

Stupid, messy twat, with that godawful hair. Like animals had just copulated in it. Like he had just copulated. This was a horrifying thought, so horrifying that Draco’s cheeks became startlingly heated. Potter, copulating, sweat shining on his brow like after Quidditch, eyes intensely erotic, thighs gripped tightly and shaking as he thrust deeply and sharply and Potter moaning and gripping the swells of flesh beneath him with his calloused hands --

Horrifying. Horrifying.

He paced.

Potter, stupid, messy Potter, late Potter, where the fuck was he? There was a bench, but he couldn’t fathom the idea of sitting. The moon was out. Strokes of white danced across the lake, cool wind rustled the turning leaves above his head, a flurry of them fell around him as a particularly angry breeze swirled by. Draco agreed.

The crunching of fallen leaves broke the relative silence. Draco turned sharply.

“Malfoy.”

Draco crossed his arms firmly and took five loud steps until he could make the most of the two or so inches he had on Potter. He glared down his nose. “Potter,” he said acidly. “You’re late, what a surprise.”

Potter reached out and pushed him away by the chest, nostrils flared. “Yeah, because being on time to a bloody fistfight is my first priority. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, yeah? What is your first priority, then?” He stepped closer. “No, don’t tell me -- it’s to save the world, isn’t it? To sacrifice yourself for another noble cause? That’s it, right? To be a bloody hero? Saint Potter, prancing around with his wand and his scar --”

“You’ve got it all fucking wrong, Malfoy,” said Harry, and he threw the first punch. Draco touched his lip. He hadn’t expected that. Then again, he wasn’t about to complain.

He lunged. They went down in a tangle of limbs, Draco scrambling for the upper hand and pinning the git to the cold dirt. Moonlight softened everything, made a dancing light garden of the warm skin beneath him, set the world on brilliant silver fire. He wrestled blindly, the world shimmering and dark and ethereal. This was Potter, Harry fucking Potter was beneath him, all warm, firm muscles and soft skin and hair and sweat. Draco sucked shallow breaths through his mouth, moisture already gathering above his lip and sliding languorously down his temple.

Potter wrestled them over. His hands were tight as cuffs around Draco’s wrists, pinning them both with one hand above his head as he leant over and wrestled a punch in at Draco’s jaw. The blond flailed his legs, aiming to kick -- right there -- his knee, to hook his thigh, to trip him up -- Draco kicked and kicked and Potter straddled him.

It was like his entire body went up in flames. Draco panted like a dog and there were thighs, there was skin everywhere. He became hyper aware of the knuckles at his wrist, of the fingers circling him, of the hot press of Harry’s arse on his stomach and those thighs holding him in place. Draco felt all the blood in his body rush south. He was angry. He was indescribably angry.

“Potter, you fucking cunt,” he growled, and with a surge of adrenaline released his hand and sent it balled at Potter’s face.

“Jesus,” muttered Potter, and he shielded his nose as Draco went for another. He’d lost the upper hand. Draco pushed him over and scrambled so he assumed Potter’s former position. There was blood peeking from Harry’s nose, blood smeared above his lip, the yellow-gray of a bruise already blooming along his jaw. His lips were gleaming and red in the moonlight. His tongue darted out to swipe across them. Draco went for a hit.

Over and over they turned, swapping punches, stealing the upper hand, spitting acid and pushing away. There were hands everywhere, gripping and pulling and shoving and Draco’s erection felt like a fifth limb. It was anger as he’d never felt it. It was Harry who’d suggested it, really, in the form of a wrestle to the ground when the wand duel wasn’t enough. It was hands-on. It was furious. It was blind and the world felt more visible than ever before.

It happened when Harry was beneath him, eyes shining and dark and wild and Draco revelled in the knowledge that it was he who had made a mess of his hair, that Draco could say he had influence in the creation of Potter’s infamous just-had-sex look -- Potter, beneath him, bare skin, sweat, muscles and friction --

Draco was straddling him, and there were leaves in Potter’s hair, and it was then he realized they were staring. Neither were moving save for the synced oscillation of their breaths, the up-down like rolling waves. Harry’s lips were parted and his eyes stared back at him. The world became monochrome in the twilight. Draco’s erection was hard against Harry’s stomach. He couldn’t breathe.

Harry grabbed his head and kissed him.

It was crazy. Draco thought he may legitimately die of asphyxiation, and then he leaned back for a breath, and he plunged right back in. Harry opened his hot mouth and it was like they were still fighting, they were still fighting as his tongue darted out, wet and wonderful, battling with Draco’s like a malleable sword.

They breathed in each other’s mouths. Harry tasted like Harry, Draco realized, he tasted like warm milk as mouths often do and a trace of sugar in the hollows of his cheeks. Treacle tart. Draco released the shorter boy’s wrists and went about tangling them deep in that hair. He didn’t know where Harry’s glasses went.

Harry’s arms went tight around his middle and Harry’s hands pulled him down by the shoulders and Draco was rubbing against him, rubbing, there was hot blood gathering at his core, he panted and moaned and then Harry flipped them over and Draco didn’t mind. He aligned their bodies and Draco reached up to feel the firm globes of his arse, and Harry arched above him like a cat.

“You fucking bastard,” is what he groaned.

They were kissing, mouthing, Harry was unbuttoning his shirt and then his own, there was so much skin. Draco ran his hands fervently over the warm, hard back and felt up the abdomen and played with the nipples. Harry was breathing shakily and making little whiny noises, and then he bent down and sucked all over Draco chest, circled his tongue around his nipples and dragged his searing lips down the line of hair. He stopped him when Draco tried to touch himself.

When they climaxed, it was more satisfying than any punch or any hex or any vulgar words. Harry rolled off of him with effort and dropped, exhausted, beside him on the ground. They breathed. The world was wind and ground and lake and Harry Potter.

“I hate you,” said Harry, and he sealed it with a kiss.


End file.
